A conversation overheard in a bar in Westminster:
So, Boris, what’s the plan?
Plan…? What plan?
The plan now we’ve left and now we know that Dave doesn’t have a plan.
Ah, yes, that plan. Well, erm, the plan is to plan a plan.
Yes, we must. The people are asking us what the plan is.
I know and I keep getting asked that too. It’s bloody annoying.
We need to get the civil servants to work their arses off, sorting all this shit out. They know what to do.
Boris, I think they need someone to give them some direction, like a plan or something.
We’ll sweet talk Dave. He’ll arrange all the meetings. We’ll do the touchy feely stuff. It’s what I can do. I’ll call on my public school boy good looks and foppishness – gets them every time. You never know, it might make me Prime Minister when Dave buggers off. After all, I have fuck all else.
What about the immigration issue, Boris? People are worried about the racism that’s been escalating since Friday. They’re also worried about share prices and a shed load of other things. We need to reassure them.
Well, Dave’s still in charge, not me. No rush. Mañana, mañana. George can sort out the money side of things. We can jump on Nige’s bus – scrap the NHS slogan, what a twat, and let’s go and build bridges, reach out to the worriers. I know, we can start a new campaign: hug a Remain voter.
Boris, I’m not sure that they want hugs. I think they’re looking for leadership.
Everyone’s so worried. Why? This is fun! It’s exciting! They need to lighten up and join in the games. We played hide and seek at the weekend, but they found me. Blighters. Now it’s British Bulldog – get past the doubters! Move out the way, we’re coming through. Vive le UK!